


Tiger Stripes

by Zanbaby



Category: ALL OUT!! - Amase Shiori (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, Declarations Of Love, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Multi, Reader-Insert, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 07:22:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10238909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanbaby/pseuds/Zanbaby
Summary: Ebumi is facing emotional difficulties after his first ever breakup where his previous partner leaves him questioning what's wrong with his body. Fortunately there is someone else who is quick to respond, and genuine about healing his heart~





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my dear Kat encouraged me to write this fic & is responsible for a lot of the good stuff lol~ please check [her](http://imagine-some-fluffy-asks.tumblr.com) out ♡

“Heh, Masaru, you’re so cute.”

 

“Nah,” the blond grins slyly, leaning on the door frame with his eyes transfixed on his partner, “you’re the cute one!”

 

“Come on babe, shirt off,” they playfully command. “I’ve been waiting to see my _big_ , _strong_ , rugby-playing boyfriend shirtless all week.”

 

They say it with particular enunciation on those _all-defining_ masculine features, and perhaps there’s a little _too_ much pride in the term ‘rugby-playing boyfriend’ specifically.

 

Ebumi is oblivious to any potential for ulterior motives, or the possibility that he is being used, however.

 

It’s been a long time since the second-year delinquent has felt this much purpose and excitement in life.

 

Being in a relationship has turned lonely nights with rented DVDs and frustration induced fits of anxiety into a thing of the past.

 

It is amazing how having one special person can flip everything around. They have become his idol; a thing of _worship_ and Ebumi hasn’t ever considered himself a romantic before, but love has proven itself to be a many-splendored thing indeed.

 

Perhaps this unabashed, unrestrained flood of devotion and _dependence_ on one person is why it is so hard to put himself back together when he feels, for just an awful moment, that every fragment he used to build his world has been smashed, swept up, and put in the bin along with his heart.

 

He quickly brushes aside the comment. He _must_ have heard it wrong, or misinterpreted it. His love would never _intentionally_ hurt him like that, _of course they wouldn’t_!

 

It’s his fault, obviously. He’s an idiot after all; stupid Ebumi who’s only good for getting into fights and lending out money. _Naturally_ he would take things the wrong way, that’s just his bad habits reappearing.

 

“Oh… wow, I did _not_ expect you to look like _that_ ,” they said with deliberate and apparent distaste. 

 

“H— how do you mean?” Ebumi murmurs, his grip tightening on the hem of his shirt after at first being so eagerly removed.

 

“Come here; let me take a closer look at you.”

 

He obliges. His partner is surely keen to disprove themselves and simply wants to reaffirm how much they adore him, just like they said.

 

They _had_ said that. ' _Masaru, you’re so cute_.' He remembers it!

 

“Are those… oh my g— for real? Do you have _stretch marks_?! You do! Look!”

 

“Huh?” Ebumi flinches, looking down at his hips; dimpled where his partner’s fingertips press without care into the plush skin.

 

“Oh gosh,” they chuckle then, “look at this belly as well, that’s not what it’s meant to be like.”

 

“What do you mean? Why isn’t it?” Ebumi wonders, trying so hard not to react to it as if it’s an insult. 

 

Of _course_ it isn’t, his love would _never_ do anything to _intentionally_ hurt him. It’s _his_ fault: stupid Ebumi… who really feels like crying.

 

“Well, y'know… good looking rugby players are all fit and toned. No stretch marks or muffin tops,” they snicker. “Like Sekizan! He’s how I imagine a real rugby player to look!”

 

That cuts through him like a white hot blade angled straight at his heart, and he squirms uncomfortably as he tries to get out of their scrutinising grip.

 

Their fingers only press deeper into his hips when he retreats though, his partner squinting in a way that can only be described by him as hateful. Like they hate what they see, they hate how he is; they hate _him_ , because _he’s_ not Sekizan.

 

“B— babe,” he tries weakly, his voice breaking as he pushes away their vicious hands.

 

“Mm,” his partner responds thoughtfully as they relinquish their clawed hold and slump over the edge of the bed. “Well, you’re _okay_ , I guess. Not quite there… but you’re alright.”

 

“W— what can I do?” Ebumi pleads, almost immediately accepting this treatment when he comes to the conclusion that if he doesn’t try to appease his love then they will abandon him.

 

“Mmmm,” they ponder in a listless tone. “Maybe just keep your shirt on to be honest. At least I can pretend you’re different under there then.”

 

Ebumi’s heart is fragile, contrary to what others would expect of him, but this is more than enough to wound anyone immeasurably, and possibly even beyond repair.

 

The aching weight in his chest sinks right into the pit of his stomach as a heavy, painful sadness branches out into his extremities.

 

 _You said you loved me how I am_ , he wants to reason, but he’s become apathetic all of a sudden, his sense of conviction and self-esteem in complete tethers.

 

“I… I should go home,” he manages to grind out through chattering teeth, tugging his shirt on and hiding his ugly, shameful body that has allegedly repulsed his partner so much.

 

“Might be best, I’m not really in the mood now, y'know?” They say as if that’s perfectly _reasonable_ and that he has _utterly_ disappointed them.

 

“I— I’ll call you,” Ebumi promises, hoping that if he walks away now and tries again tomorrow he’ll be graced with the realisation that this whole thing was nothing more than a nasty dream.

 

“Oh you don’t have to babe, I’ll call you actually!” They lie smoothly, masking their malice with the sweet dressing of a pet-name.

 

Ebumi tries his best to smile after he’s fully dressed himself again and is about to close the door behind him.

 

“B— bye— goodnight,” he stutters, nodding before taking his leave.

 

He’s glad it’s dark so that no one can see the bitter tears streaming down his burning cheeks as he leaves his partner’s house.

 

He’s glad no one is ever home for him, either, when he curls up in bed, ignoring the note and the money from his mother.

 

And he’s glad that no one cares that he’s crying himself to sleep without dinner.

 

That awful evening rudely persists in the fact that it was, tragically, reality. Ebumi has felt rotten for days; he hasn’t eaten, he hasn’t stopped crying, and he hasn’t been to school once.

 

He just lays in bed, not daring to walk past a mirror, and staring hopefully at the harsh bright screen of his phone, clinging to the possibility that he’ll get a text from his love that will alleviate his worries and his desperation.

 

For three days though he receives nothing, except from his teammates reminding him of an upcoming match.

 

He ignores them all, even Matsuo. There’s nothing and _no_ one else that he needs as much as his partner.

 

Even just a vacant, 'hi there,’ would satiate him.

 

But, funnily enough, not long after thinking this, he is blessed with something _just_ like that… from you.

 

He frowns at his phone, having thought he’d temporarily blocked any incoming messages from anyone besides his partner, but there you are on his lock-screen.

 

It’s a picture message, and he deliberates over opening it; his thumb dancing above the home button before, for whatever reason he decides to, he actually clicks it.

 

'Made me think of you, isn’t it cute??’ Is the caption that accompanies a rather disgruntled looking tawny owl with ruffled feathers and one eye narrowed, squinting at the camera.

 

Regardless of the state he’s in and the misery he has allowed himself to succumb to, for the first time in three whole days, Ebumi smiles and begins to type back.

 

'Y bcoz he’s fuck ugly ?’

 

You get his message, and are quick to return it, knowing what a breakthrough this is given that no one else has heard from him.

 

'Nooo, he’s beautiful! (´；Д ；｀)’ you insist.

 

For a split second upon reading this, a flitter of genuine belief and gratefulness blossoms, and Ebumi almost begins to type out a desperate plea to know if you are serious and if you think that of him.

 

He shakes his head and scowls, berating himself quietly before he settles for, 'where did u c him ?’

 

'In the park~ they came for a day out with the bird sanctuary LOL’

 

He’s at a loss for how to reply to that. He has no energy to ask more questions that won’t really lead to much in the way of substantial conversation, but at the same time, he doesn’t want you to stop talking.

 

His heart jumps a little when he sees that you’re already writing another message though, and he gnaws his thumb in anticipation, a slight curl to the corner of his mouth.

 

'So hey! the guys said you’ve been off for a while, if you’re ill do you want any shopping bringing over or anything?’

 

You know full well that he  _isn't_ ill. That is just Ebumi’s default cover story for the times he takes off to brood or avoid people while he gets over something, but you humour the facade for his sake, knowing there’s probably a good reason for his distance.

 

'Nah thnx,’ he types with a smile, 'b back 2morrw ᕙ(•̀∀•́)ᕗ’

 

'Back to torment us so soon Ebucchi ψ(ಥ◇ಥ)Ψ’

 

The blond laughs out loud as he reads your final message, and he goes over the conversation several times, renewing his grin every instance he relives the interaction.

 

Tonight he finds the will to order himself food, and he goes to sleep surprisingly without a  _single_ thought of the message he’d been waiting on all this time, but of seeing you in class the next day instead. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for more angst in this chapter & a lot of insecurity on ebumi's end ;^;

As promised, Ebumi returns the very next day. He’d been anxious of the attention at first, worried that he’d want to leave if he was cornered into explaining the reason for his absence by teachers or classmates, but by this point people knew better than to ask; ‘that’s just Ebumi,’ was the general consensus these days.

 

Naturally he is welcomed back with open arms by his team of course! The stupid shrimp seems to have a bone to pick about it, but he’s surprisingly delicate in the way he words it; not directly attacking him for his time off, but insisting that he 'run like hell’ to make up for it in their match tomorrow, which makes the second-year chuckle.

 

Truthfully it’s nice to be back, surrounded by people that will support him and take his mind off the terrible few days he’s had.

 

Matsuo gives him a kind smile when he sees him. He wouldn’t be surprised if _he_ already knew everything, that boy has an incredible knack for working things out going on the most remote hints!

 

But on that basis it is only more appreciated that he doesn’t comment, just nods sagely and claps Ebumi on the shoulder before they begin practice.

 

It’s all going so well up until the blessed distraction of training ends. When everyone disbands and heads to the club room in chatty gaggles and start getting changed, that’s when it happens.

 

He’d been prepared for there to be  _something_ that ticked him off; it’s not easy keeping all these feelings to himself, but Ebumi never wants to reveal weakness or ask for help because he likes to be the one others turn to.

 

It’s more obvious than he thinks though. Everyone knows that he’s prone to snapping, or acting out in class— smoking and skipping school and devious behaviour. But the difference is that everyone  _accepts_ it.

 

They know that if they were to confess to this awareness of his true-self, and the way he pushes down his feelings instead of letting them out, it would crush him.

 

He would instantly think he’d been seen as weak all this time, or that no one really thought he was strong or reliable. It would likely destroy him, because the bravado is all he has.

 

And as insensible and, perhaps  _irresponsible_ as it is, the group’s unanimous decision is always to enable him. Just  _let_ him shout,  _let_ him go off,  _let_ him pick fights and be bossy. Just let him get it out in  _whatever_ way he needs to so that he can go back to pretending everything is alright.

 

It’s not right, but it’s easier, for them and for Ebumi.

 

And in the end, if keeping up appearances and maintaining the illusion of seeing him the way he wants to be seen is what makes him happy, then that’s all that matters.

 

Ebumi's  _happiness_ is all that matters, even if it is fleeting, and rarely here to stay.

 

It’s the sight of Sekizan that causes it.

 

Ebumi deliberates as he starts to take off his jersey, looking around at his athletic teammates.

 

Kifune is lithe but he is toned nonetheless. Oharano has a notably feminine figure too, but he is muscular where he needs to be, and his hips are lean and pronounced in a way that girls would both envy and adore.

 

Eventhe stupid shrimp is ripped to high hell, and he’s shorter  _and_ younger!

 

When his eyes fall on Sekizan with his shirt off though, laughing as he chats to Mutsumi, Ebumi feels a noxious cocktail of rage and jealousy, and melancholy too, all churning in his stomach.

 

He stares, watching how his buxom chest and ribbed torso twitch with laughter and shimmer with sweat from exertion.

 

He truly is a model athlete. No stretch marks to comment on either.

 

' _Like Sekizan! He’s how I imagine a real rugby player to look_!'

 

Ebumi is blinded out of better judgment as he recalls the cruel verdict of his partner, and decides against getting changed out of his kit, storming over to their captain instead.

 

“Oi, blockhead! Why don’t you put a damn shirt on, not everyone wants to see your body you know! There’s no one here who wants  _that_ staring them in the face so don’t flaunt it like you’re some kind of god!” He rants; his face bright red and visibly steaming even though there are tears in his eyes.

 

Sekizan looks startled by the sudden shouting, but he doesn’t seem hurt, he just unfolds his arms and blinks before stepping aside when Ebumi pushes past: embarrassed and close to sobbing so deciding to get the hell out of there.

 

It’s after school and already getting dark by the time the blond has gathered himself and suppressed his tears. He gets changed in a cubicle in the toilets, and takes off long after the rest of the team have quit looking for him and had to go home.

 

The streetlights come on and guide his way, but the thought of going back to an empty house where there will be no one to tell about his shitty day, no one to cook him a nice dinner, or to run him a nice warm bath, just hurts too much to face.

 

He veers off the straight footpath and crosses over, taking a few risky shortcuts to get to the DVD store before it closes.

 

Perhaps if he stocks up on some mind-numbing movies to watch all night then he can forget the events of today just like the last three.

 

He’s not really in the mood to watch porn, which is a tell-tale sign that he’s starting to get depressed. He doesn’t see the point now though. What’s there to learn if his partner doesn’t even want to  _see_ him naked? And his self-esteem, or  _lack_ thereof, is rather subduing his libido right now.

 

He tries the section dedicated to action movies, but he isn’t gripped by the usual things he comes across. He’s not intrigued by horror, sci-fi, or comedy either, it seems.

 

When he gets to the romance aisle; one he usually avoids unless he’s picking up something to watch with his partner, he stops dead. His phone is alerting him, and he  _knows_ that text-tone.

 

Almost dropping it as he fumbles for it in his pocket, he feels a wave of dread anchor his feet to the spot, dragging his stomach, his lungs, his heart, and his breath right down through the floor into oblivion.

 

He thinks he might have a panic-attack with the severity of this paralysing nausea, but he swallows and licks his lips, ignoring how sweaty his palms have become as he holds his phone up to his face and opens the message app to a chunky paragraph.

 

The first thing he notices is the lack of emojis, hearts, or even just a kiss at the end.

 

He’s trembling, trying not to drop his phone, and he wonders if here is the best place to read it, but he doesn’t have much of a choice; he can’t even lift his feet.

 

'Hi, sorry I left you hanging LOL! I’ve been seeing someone else these past couple of days and thinking about what happened the other night. I realised you’re not the guy for me and I think we’d both be happier apart. Please don’t try to call me I’ll be with my partner.’

 

Ebumi doesn’t know what to respond to first, or how to  _respond_ in general.

 

For a second he’s mad and feels like he should find this new partner and beat the shit out of them for taking away the one person he’s ever loved like this, the next minute he just wants to curl up in the middle of the DVD store and cry.

 

He goes on in this way for nearly a solid five minutes of just standing there, shaking like a leaf and trying to grab even  _one_ of these awful, fleeting emotions out of the whirlwind so that he can at least start  _somewhere_ on working out how he feels, but he’s paralysed mentally now as well as physically.

 

He’s crying before he even realises it, not sobbing yet but close to it when a trio of tears escape his overfilled eyes, blurring his vision and creating a nasty ticklish feeling on his cheeks as they race each other.

 

He presses his lips together to prevent them from trembling, and manages to stop looking at his phone; reading the message over and over even as it becomes too hard to make out the words.

 

He just wants to be sure he's  _right_. He can’t risk the possibility that he’s just being his stupid old self and completely misinterpreting it, but even in this state of sheer desperation, Ebumi knows that he  _isn’t_ mistaken. It’s over.

 

The thing that  _really_ hurts though isn’t the mention of someone new. 

 

It isn’t the realisation that the love of his life, while he had been  _grieving_ and  _hating_ himself for three days, has been out there  _cheating_ on him with someone probably ten times better.

 

What hurts is that  _they_ decided for the both of them what would lead to happiness. _They_ decided that  _he_ would be happy without them.

 

What _hurts_ is that they are assured their decision is mutually beneficial; that he will get over it and carry on without them. But would they even care if he told them that they are very,  _very_ wrong?

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The feeling comes back to his feet when his heart starts to pound and his breath comes in short pants. Clearly his body knows he needs to get out of here _right_ now before he makes a scene.

 

People are _already_ staring; he can feel their eyes on him, and so he finally acts and pockets his phone before darting out of the rental shop and doing what he does best: running.

 

He runs as fast as he can, faster than he’s _ever_ run in a game, and he keeps going and keeps going and _keeps going_ until he is _so_ out of breath that by the time he has to stop, he doesn’t know where he is.

 

The streetlights are sparse here; it isn’t as well illuminated as the high streets, and even though it is dark there is usually a lot of traffic, but not in this place.

 

‘What neighbourhood is this?’ He wonders to himself, panting before he wipes the sweat off his brow and looks around keenly for a road sign or something.

 

There’s a huge open expanse across the road. It’s hard to make out exactly, but judging by the fence that encircles it and the closely planted greenery, he’s near a park.

 

He doesn’t think he’s ever been here before, but he recalls something that brings him comfort, and he’s already heading over there to find a bench, thinking about the picture you sent him with the owl.

 

He sits heavily and hunches, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath.

 

Having practically run away from a breakdown, he’s feeling pretty exhausted, and also cold without a jacket and just his school shirt on.

 

He rubs his arms anxiously, looking around in the bleakness for any sign of direction to home, but he really _doesn’t_ know this place. He could be one street over from his own house, or he could be half the city away.

 

With no sense of direction, he does the sensible thing and takes out his phone. His battery is low, but that isn’t the most imminent problem.

 

Rather than searching GPS maps, he finds himself opening the message from his ex…

 

His eyes sting even before he begins to read it again and he knows perfectly well that the words won’t have changed, his partner won’t have thought twice or texted, ‘hi,’ telling him that it’s all a cruel joke but they still love him and want to be with him.

 

That doesn’t stop him from wishing for it though.

 

He runs his middle finger over his bottom lip thoughtfully as his index finger rests in the perfect divot under nose and his thumb frames his chin, and slowly his hand comes to cover his mouth as the lump in his throat starts to waver under the pressure of a sob that he _desperately_ bites back.

 

The relief of running away is so _very_ short-lasting, and he’s crying again now, even after all that.

 

Loneliness is hardly an unfamiliar feeling to Ebumi, but this is a kind of pain that has coupled itself with his most _bitter_ emotions, and it is making them stronger than they’ve ever been before. 

 

He really could do with a cigarette right about now, he thinks. The pain is _unbearable_ , even to the point where he wonders, for just a brief second, about something he is _sure_ he’d talked himself out of _years_ ago.

 

But who _is_ he living for? Who would miss him? He has nothing. He _is_ nothing, and he’s _convinced_ he won’t find anyone to love him the way he loved his only partner.

 

As if God himself is telling him just to do it, the heavens open and it begins to rain, soaking the poor lost boy in seconds.

 

He’s grateful though. With the sound of the falling sky and no one around to hear him, he can cry his eyes out, where the tears will be invisible in the raindrops, and his broken, pleading voice will be drowned out by the clattering of heavy downpour on concrete.

 

Maybe he’ll get washed away; swept up by a flood and swallowed by a storm drain, he hopes anyway.

 

His phone is dead now, and he is so cold on this bench in the darkness and the wetness, but he simply doesn’t care, and he _almost_ thinks he’s slipped out of consciousness when he hears it.

 

“Ebucchi!” Someone calls out, louder than his harrowing thoughts and stronger than sound of the rain.

 

“Jesus Chr— how long have you been out here?!” You exclaim. Your voice is coarse and almost chastising with panic as you reach him.

 

You immediately take off your coat and wrap it around the listless boy, but it isn’t until you crouch in front of him and hold his arms firmly, gazing up at him with bright and brilliant eyes _even_ in the darkness, that the blond actually sees _you_ , and begins to cry harder as he throws his arms around you.

 

“Come on sweetheart, we have to go inside _right_ now,” you instruct, guiding him to his feet and keeping a strong arm around him as you march him back to your apartment across the street.

 

The difference from cold, howling, stormy weather to the peaceful, dimly-lit ambiance in the safety of your house is almost overwhelming for Ebumi, and he stumbles a little on his way over the threshold.

 

You catch him with ease, and hold him up.

 

“How long were you just sitting there for?” You ask, your voice drenched in pity just as he is drenched in rainwater.

 

You speak softly though, able to communicate sympathetically now that you’re out of immediate danger and in the solace of your living room.

 

Ebumi can’t reply; he’s too tongue-tied trying to stop himself from crying in front of you and feeling like an idiot. It’s quieter here and compared to how he howled outside along with the wind, it’s hard to rein it in.

 

“It’s okay,” you assure him, sitting him down on the couch and snatching two towels and a blanket out of the nearby basket of freshly dried laundry. They’re still faintly warm, and it’s nice for him when they replace the heaviness of your damp coat.

 

“Sweetheart, we need to get you out of your wet clothes or you’ll get hypothermia. I’ll go and run you a bath while you warm up, okay?” You reason with him, slipping his open school shirt off his shoulders and _attempting_ to lift the hem of his undershirt that is plastered to his body.

 

“No!” He suddenly cries; his cold, trembling fingers desperately gripping your hands.

 

“Don’t make me take it off— p— please don’t!” He wails, starting up into full hysterics again.

 

“You can do that, angel. You can do it yourself,” you promise, rubbing up and down his arms to both soothe and warm him.

 

“I won’t undress you, sweet pea, you can do that bit. But you need to take off these wet clothes or you’ll get sick.”

 

The appeal of such cherishing, _kindly_ worded insistences and terms of endearment seem to soften him a little, because he nods in understanding, but then he looks at you almost helplessly and shakes his head immediately after.

 

“I can't— t— take— it— off,” he sobs, hiccupping between breaths as he struggles to even get the words out.

 

“Why not sweetheart?” You sympathise, every ounce of patience and understanding that you can fathom swimming in your gaze.

 

“It's— gro— it’s ugly! It’s t— too— they didn’t like it! They said it’s not— normal!” He begins to cry, stumbling over himself as he covers his face and breathes erratically, his hands running into his hair as he tugs at his dyed tresses and fails to keep the wretched, straining sounds of a sob inside.

 

You frown at this, starting to get an idea of why Ebumi is suffering such a drastic attack.

 

He’d kept it quiet at first that he’d started dating someone, but he became far too proud of the situation not to celebrate, and soon word spread when he began boasting how lucky and how _in love_ he was.

 

Everyone was happy for him; seeing a wild card like Ebumi, who usually had _terrible_ luck with getting anyone to consider him romantically, now in a serious relationship, was genuinely adorable and something you were all eager to support.

 

That was until you _met_ them.

 

When his partner showed up to a rugby match, Ebumi had begged to be put on so that he could show off to them, but it was hard for anyone but him not to notice that their interests _weren’t_ on how well _he_ had played, or how many tries _he_ had scored, but in the stoic captain who had little interest to give _them_.

 

From there onward Ebumi started telling stories that he laughed at and regarded with good humour, but for those not blinded by love, it was clear that his partner was not a _kind_ person, and their affection for the blond seemed to be motivated largely by gifts and persuasions.

 

You have to remind yourself not to let your fingers dig in as you gently support his elbows, but thinking about how badly Ebumi must have been treated is absolutely heinous.

 

You can’t let yourself get mad though, not now. This is a time where you should focus on making things _better_ … you can tackle his ex later… metaphorically and, at this rate, _literally_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor ebumi i feel so bad for him & i wrote it!! ;0;


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is the long awaited comfort part guys you've all suffered so i hope this makes up for it ;3;

You rub the outsides of his arms with your thumbs in a nursing, ritual manner as you look at him; concern etched within the doleful but earnest expression you’re wearing.

 

“What’s ugly, angel? There’s _nothing_ ugly about you!” You assure him in a sensitive tone, though sounding rather offended to hear he thinks that of himself.

 

Ebumi _clearly_ disagrees, but he can’t even say it because there’s so many jumbled up words in his mouth, and his nose is blocked and his mascara has run and he’s _trying_ to wipe his eyes with the back of his arm.

 

“I’m n— not normal! I’m not— I’m not the guy—” he can’t even finish that sentence before a guttural sob pushes its way up to the back of his throat and cuts him off, and he doubles over and snivels as his shoulders heave.

 

You understand, of course. He can’t say much but he’s said enough. Ebumi has clearly just had his first heartbreak, and it looks like there’s been some nasty wounds left untended to.

 

“Did they say that to you, angel?” You inquire in a calm, patient tone. “They said you’re not normal?”

 

He supports himself on one arm, resting his elbow on his knee and swaying sickly as the weight of his forehead is transferred into the heel of his palm.

 

He shakes every time he sobs, and lets out a weak, wounded whimper as his nose starts to drip and his bottom lip twitches as if he is about to speak.

 

“I've— I’ve got stretch marks,” he just outright confesses, trailing off into a broken series of hiccups as he brings his other hand up to press his wrists against his eyes; his mascara is ruined anyway, he thinks.

 

“They— said— they said I’m not m— meant to be like that!” He chokes, “and n— now they don’t love me anymore! I ruined everything! I d— didn’t know! I didn’t know it was bad to h— have them!”

 

You have to interject at this point, because anymore would crush you.

 

You almost can’t _believe_ these things; hearing a boy of just seventeen _crying_ because someone he should have been able to _trust_ and look to for confidence has shamed him for his body, and made him feel like he doesn’t _deserve_ to be loved.

 

It’s disgusting, and also increasingly hard not to think about the near-murderous intent you harbour for his ex.

 

Hurting your friend like this; they would only live long enough to regret it… and nothing more.

 

“Here, sweetheart,” you insist, regaining your calmness as you reach around his arms and take hold of the hem of his t-shirt.

 

“Where are your stretch marks, can you show me?” You coo, leaning in a little to gently nuzzle behind his ear as he remains with his head hung in his heads.

 

He responds to this though with a faint whimper, straightening up and lifting his gaze.

 

“We need to get you out of these clothes, beautiful. If you don’t want me to look at your stretch marks then I promise I won’t, but you can’t sit around soaking any longer.”

 

 _That_ particular word seems to gain his compliance, because his crying halts for a fraction of a second, and his sodden, inky eyelashes flutter questioningly before his expression turns into something almost excruciating and he is launched into another bout of tears.

 

You try another approach, and decide to sit next to him, tugging the now damp towel tighter over his shoulders before putting an arm around him and cradling his head.

 

You’re not as surprised as you _might_ have been if dealing with Ebumi as his _usual_ self, but if anything it’s a relief that he responds well to this gesture, as he shamelessly sobs on your shoulder and curls his fists up to his own chest.

 

“I’m not going to look,” you promise him, “I not going to look if you don’t want me to, beautiful.”

 

Carefully, so as not to startle him, you begin to peel away his clingy undershirt, slowly lifting it up until, thankfully, Ebumi lifts his arms too and allows you to free him of the unpleasantly damp garment finally.

 

“ _There_ you go, gorgeous,” you smile encouragingly. “I bet that feels better.”

 

Quickly diminishing his exposure, you tug the blanket around him now to keep him warm.

 

“You can take your socks and school trousers off while I make some tea. Go sit in front of the fire, okay?” You instruct, stroking his hair with all the tenderness a lover should do before you get up to build a nest of pillows and fetch the duvet from your room to put in front of the lowly stoked hearth.

 

Giving him a bit of privacy to calm down on his own seems like a good decision. He looks a mess when you come back, but only a _slightly_ teary one nevertheless, and you’re glad to see him warming up in the blanket as he holds his hands up to the fibreglass coals.

 

“Here you go, beautiful,” you say, calmly alerting him to your presence behind as you set your own mug of tea down and delicately hand the other one to him.

 

You hold it by the rim so that he doesn’t have to when taking it off you; preventing him from burning himself.

 

“Thanks,” he says, having to clear his throat when he finds that the words snag in a hoarse croak after all his crying.

 

The pair of you are silent for a while after that. You’re wondering what you can say, and hoping that this is a sign he’s feeling better when he sips his tea and continues staring at the fire dancing on its bed of stones.

 

You chance to get a little closer, quietly implying that the blanket is slipping so that you have an excuse to adjust it and therefore touch Ebumi, hoping the gesture might warrant a glance or a word.

 

At this proximity you notice how the reflection of the fireplace shines in his sore, sunken eyes; it swims in them, in fact, and you realise he’s not actually finished crying yet.

 

“Hey,” you whisper in a way that says a lot more than you’d expect from a single utterance.

 

It informs him that you plan to do something though, and he immediately falls limp as soon as the warmth of your body becomes tangible as you hold him.

 

You quickly rub up and down his outside arm as if to warm him up, and hush him when, inevitably, he starts to shed whatever tears he has left to cry.

 

“Listen,” you begin in a quiet, almost nurturing tone as you press a non-committal kiss to the top of his head; just a gentle touch of your lips that stay there for a while before you speak again.

 

“Whatever they’ve said to you… I know it must be hard not to take it to heart, or to think it’s true. I _know_ that you value their opinion because you value _them_ , but when someone says something about your physical appearance that you cannot help, that’s different.”

 

He’s definitely listening, though thinking about his ex has riled him up already, so you start to rock him, letting your hand migrate away from his arm to cradle his head, stroking his hair cherishingly.

 

“There is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with your body, sweetheart. And that’s not an opinion or any kind of personal judgement, that’s a simple fact.”

 

You try to maintain an empathetic approach, but make sure your voice is firm and unwavering too, so that he _knows_ how serious you are.

 

“You’re athletic, you’re healthy, you’ve got so much going for you and you’re a good person… when you want to be,” you smile, lightening things up with the jest as you scratch the back of his neck gently with your fingertips.

 

“More to the point though, your stretch marks are nothing to hate or be embarrassed about. You were right before to think there was nothing wrong with them, because there isn’t. They’re beautiful, and _you’re_ beautiful, and just because your partner doesn’t love them that _doesn’t_ mean that no one will.”

 

You pause in case he has something to say on the matter, but it seems like just listening to you talk is actually helping him to calm down, so you continue while playing mindlessly with his hair.

 

“I know how much you want them not to mind, and it’s really, _really_ shitty that they do, I know… but as much as it hurts right now, it’s a good thing to move on, because the person who is really meant _just_ for you won’t ever hurt you or be purposefully vindictive. They will _love you_ and _support you_ just as you are, and however you want to be in the future too. They don’t deserve your time if they don’t appreciate how wonderful you are already.”

 

“ _Frankly_ ,” you whisper, bringing your lips closer to his ear and kissing just in front of it, making him shrug his shoulders and bite his bottom lip as he smiles through the tears, “I think it’s immature if they can’t appreciate your tiger stripes… to me, that’s a sign of someone who doesn’t know their own luck when they have a _beautiful_ , _unique_ person like _you_ around, Ebucchi~”

 

He fidgets in your arms, so you open them for him to get comfortable, but you’re actually a little surprised when he goes one step further and returns one of your kisses… on the lips, no less.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

It seems as if he's surprised even _himself_ with that, but in the moment it had felt like the right thing to do; it was what he _wanted_ to do.

 

Because… being around you is _nothing_ like being with his ex. There's a constant, radiant air of _comfort_ and _belonging_ here, in your arms and just being beside you.

 

He's always thought so, but never in such an intense way before.

 

You've been a good and reliable friend, the kind _he_ tries so hard to be to his teammates and to you in return, but coming from such a lonely, dark place, only to end up with you in this cosy, intimate setting feels more than just right, it feels natural.

 

It feels like home.

 

You save him from the flicker of fear that washes over his face when he notices that he's caught you off guard; a pink tinge to his cheeks that is kindling for a fiery blush.

 

You tame it by kissing him with several tender, earnest touches of your lips, marking him from mouth… to jaw… to neck… to shoulder.

 

He lets the blanket slip enough to expose more and more skin for your descent, but you go slowly; not rushing him at any point while you take the time to appreciate _every_ inch of him that he offers to you.

 

It's funny, but you find yourself thinking of his ex briefly. You want them to know what they've done, and what they're now missing.

 

You want them to damn well _see_ that _this_ is how you treat the person you love: with devotion and _respect_.

 

"You're beautiful," you say in a light voice carried on a quiet exhale, as you steadily help him to recline on the spread of feather pillows, but keeping his modesty safe by draping the fleece blanket over his chest once his is lying down.

 

"These big strong arms…" you purr, caressing the relaxed muscles with one hand while you kiss the bicep of the other.

 

Ebumi smiles lopsidedly and flexes for you, and you respond by widening your eyes and making an impressed noise.

 

It's vital that he feels the kind of affection and awe that he needs in order to regain his confidence, so you encourage his efforts at every single opportunity.

 

"I can lift Matsuo, you know?" He mentions, that loveable spark of arrogance flickering back to life as you gladly continue to feed his ego.

 

"No way!" You challenge him playfully.

 

"It's true! I threw him a whole three feet vertically when I got attacked by some bastard crab at the beach and I still caught him!" He fervently retells.

 

" _Oh_ , selfless as well as strong," you swoon in a dramatic voice. It gets a chuckle and a blush out of Ebumi though, and so you ease him down onto his beck again after he had momentarily leant up when protesting your disbelief.

 

"Go on, beautiful, I want to hear more," you smile, paying attention to his chest as you follow on from mouthing at his shoulder.

 

"Heh, well... I uh... I scored three tries in practice today..."

 

"Mhm," you acknowledge, lovingly rubbing circles with your thumbs over the barely distinguishable ridges where his ribs should be.

 

It’s a nice thing to note that they’re not particularly prominent, actually. Ebumi is very soft around his torso; nicely padded.

 

Ebumi is a nice shape in _general_ really. He's particularly muscular around his extreme upper half and extreme lower half, but connected in between by a plush chest and the softest, most palpable little waist.

 

He's like an ice cream sandwich; cool softness protected by crisp, abrasive layers… with a sharp flavour but the sweetest melty centre when you get past the initial tang of his prickly nature.

 

You suppose that makes him a rare delicacy in that, in _this_ metaphor, he's not the type of ice cream cone the majority would like. 

 

Most would go for something classic like strawberry, or bubble-gum, or perhaps rocky road, but there _are_ always those who will opt for rum and raisin every time, and right now, Ebumi looks an awful lot like a big soft serve of _your_ favourite flavour as he melts into the duvet and purrs under your touch.

 

"You're beautiful," you remember to keep mentioning; _adamant_ that he will think so too by the time you're finished here.

 

He smiles dreamily, his eyes closed and his arms raised by his head as he fists up the sheet on the duvet beneath him.

 

You've been revealing him very steadily up to now, just rolling the blanket down a fraction at a time, but when you take another inch of cover away, Ebumi tenses and his comfortable expression disappears.

 

You notice immediately, of course, and stop right away, waiting for his word before doing anything more.

 

"Do you need a minute?" You offer rather than ask.

 

Ebumi looks down along his body, seeing you poised but patient as you lay out on your front between his legs.

 

"Just... just please don't stop, okay?"

 

"Please don't stop kissing me."

 

He's almost begging you. You can hear the desperation and defeat, and it's there in his eyes too.

 

"Please don't decide you hate it— or h— hate me when you see me there—"

 

"No, gorgeous," you intervene, wanting to banish those threatening tears before they can ruin his good feeling. "You’re just fine—"

 

"But you haven't seen me yet! You might think like they did! I might just repulse y—"

 

"I want you, Masaru. I want you just as you are, and I will love everything that comes with you, including these," you smile with unchallengeable conviction, sliding the rest of the blanket down without looking, and kissing the soft swell of his tummy that just slightly extends the waistband of his boxers.

 

Without faltering for a moment, you begin to kiss each individual stretch mark that adorn his hips, getting so close in that your nose lightly nudges his belly and your eyelashes sometimes brush against his skin.

 

"You see? Beautiful," you hush between kisses.

 

"They're beautiful," you soothe, migrating inward to his thighs.

 

"You're beautiful," you croon, leaving kisses for _every_ little stripe, _every_ little mark, and _every_ little _ladder_ you can discover.

 

Ebumi trembles, relaxing once more and letting out a wistful sigh as his mouth twitches at the corners; the pure and tender ministrations setting his chest a flurry as he comes to feel the love and acceptance he deserves to have learned of _long_ before now.

 

All it had taken was _one_ unpleasant encounter with someone who didn't respect his body, and since then he'd been convinced that any hope he'd have of being seen as even _remotely_ desirable was diminished completely.

 

But he will never know the right words to describe how magical it is to have all those hurtful criticisms and thoughts of self-loathing singed by the _unshakable_ passion of somebody else.

 

To have his confidence return steadily, and his doubts chased away by the devoted lips of someone who _loves_ him, and _this_ time, _truly loves every_ _aspect of him_.

 

"Your skin is the softest here," you tell him, smiling serenely as you close your eyes and just brush the tip of your nose against the tails of the stretch marks that reach toward his untoned tummy.

 

"It's the softest thing in the world..."

 

Ebumi gazes down admiringly at you, watching as you explore him with no hint of judgment, only genuine adoration.

 

He extends a hand to tentatively stroke the back of your head, and lets out a breathy laugh that makes his chest expand quickly and in turn makes his tummy ripple slightly like the tiniest disturbance on the surface of water.

 

"You're just perfect, Ebucchi.   _Just_ the way you are," you promise, opening your eyes to unveil a rich, mellow gaze that you fix directly on him.

 

Heat simmers under his skin and causes a blush to reach up to the tips of his ears; it's _far_ too adorable, and you wonder how anyone could be so mindless not to realise how perfect he really is.

 

Sensing that you've worshiped his beautiful imperfections to the fullest extent, you draw the mood away into a happy close by pressing your lips all over his tummy in a rush of raspberries and noisy, ongoing smooches that have him squirming and cackling, rolling around as he begs you to stop even though he's giggling and laughing himself to tears.

 

You cease before he starts to actually run out of breath, and bundle him up in the blanket like a little fleece wrap, pinning his arms in the swaddle and kissing his nose.

 

"Now then, beautiful boy, are you hungry? Have you had anything to eat today?"

 

Ebumi's laughing dies down, and he sniffs as you release him from the blanket burrito and shakes his head.

 

As he sits up though, the fleece slips into his lap where he adopts a pose with both knees bent for his forearms to rest along. This position makes his tummy double up like a little roll of pastry; overhanging just a bit.

 

You're glad that he already doesn't feel the need to hide it anymore, and you share in a flurry of chaste kisses all over his face before getting up to make him dinner.

 

He's clearly starving, the poor mite. He barely says a word; too busy trying to eat his fill when you place a well-piled plate on the coffee table in front of him.

 

Once he's satisfied his hunger, however, you seem to be in the company of a very special side to Ebumi.

 

He snuggles up to you automatically, and you sit with his head in your lap for most of the night, just playing with his hair as you watch television into the early hours.

 

He’s fast asleep when you check on him by silkily moving his bangs from his face. His mouth is partially open and he’s drooling, breathing deeply through his nose and making a slightly congested snoring sound; it’s just _far too damn cute_.

 

You’re careful then, delicate with him as you slowly slide him out of your lap and decide that you’ll stay in the little blanket nest in front of the fire tonight.

 

It’s cosy and intimate, and there’s no chance of a chill when Ebumi instinctively hones in on where you’re about to settle down and attaches himself to you like a baby bird.

 

You chuckle softly, enamoured by his sweet, sleep-driven antics. But more than anything, you’re happy knowing that he is too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end~ (’v`)
> 
> thank u guys for sticking with it & leaving so many nice comments ♡ there's another of these in the works rn & after the series ends ill be taking prompts & requests for fics but feel free to send them in ahead of time on my tumblr~


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